


Patterns

by Cheloya



Series: Knife Party [3]
Category: Bleach
Genre: M/M, Mercy Street RP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-10-27 06:51:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10804011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheloya/pseuds/Cheloya
Summary: Old, imported. Every pattern has to start somewhere.





	Patterns

It was a stupid thing for him not to have seen coming, and as soon as the wound was stitched closed, Mayuri was going to make sure the boy knew it. He was disgusted, absolutely disgusted, at the lack of foresight the boy had displayed.  
  
Of course, he also had to be disgusted at the woman’s lack of self control. Launching oneself at a physician – who, horrifyingly enough, really _was_ only trying to help – and attempting to ruin _his_ lungs on top of one’s dissolute husband’s was, while explicable, still entirely inappropriate behaviour.  
  
What Mayuri found even more disturbing, however, was the fact that there had been no vengeful cursing from the boy, or even any real sense of resentment. Even crying – the inescapable tears of shock and severe pain – Yamada didn’t seem to be angry. The little fool was probably still completely empathetic, Mayuri grimaced, oblivious of the messy gash from collar to sternum and the fact that for a while there he’d been bleeding out all over Mayuri’s hands – and uniform. Not for the first time, he deplored white as a wholly impractical colour.  
  
Once the bleeding had been decently suppressed and he was certain there’d be no lasting damage to the tendons in Yamada’s shoulder, Mayuri dismissed the nurses back to their stations. Tape would do to hold the wound closed until Mayuri was finished sewing sutures, and given that the blasted woman was still screaming three rooms away, there were better things they could be doing. Like sedating her, and shutting her up.  
  
Just apart from his desire to stifle the impending headache, Mayuri required Words with Yamada. Even if he was fairly sure the boy’s bodyweight had been somewhat underestimated when anaesthetic was being administered.  
  
“That was unbelievably foolish,” he muttered as he worked. “If it had been any other person, I wouldn’t have believed what I was seeing. You knew the stress that wretch was under.” He could not keep the distaste from his voice.  
  
“Sorry,” Yamada said through grit teeth. Since he was not prone to temper, Mayuri took this as a sign that they had definitely underestimated his weight. Or he was immune. Why didn’t people _check_ these things...?  
  
“Pah.” The surgeon worked quickly to close the skin at the collarbone. “The only difference to _me_ is workload. We’ll have to take you off surgery while that shoulder reknits.” A pointed glare. “ _If_ it reknits.”  
  
He had the momentary pleasure of watching the boy pale, before common sense took hold. “It’s not that bad.” Hanatarou was reproachful. His breathing shallowed slightly as he unclenched his jaw to speak. Mayuri tugged at the stitches, just enough to make a point, and suppressed a grin as the boy’s breath hitched again.  
  
“Don’t talk,” he suggested, “and keep your breathing deep. We don’t want it tearing every time you gasp.”  
  
Yamada cracked a smile at that, but instead of making whatever wry comment had occurred to him, he did exactly as the doctor had instructed. Mayuri, approaching nipple-level with his stiches, sighed, not quite regretfully.  
  
“I suppose I ought to be grateful. You’ve postponed the consultation I had scheduled for this afternoon.” Yamada’s eyes opened at that, brow creased apologetically – but still, he did not speak. Mayuri snorted, peeled off a temporary suture, and threaded the needle more slowly through his flesh.  
  
“I like to keep my schedule,” he allowed. “But that was more than likely to take longer than allowed. Better to move it to Thursday.” He tried not to pay attention to the relief in Yamada’s eyes, or the fact that he had put it there. He finished quickly – just after he had been scheduled to go home – and when he had Yamada sitting up and staring woozily at the far wall, sighed again, more irritably.  
  
“You’re going to try to catch a bus home, aren’t you.” It didn’t even have to be a question. “Take a cab.”  
  
Yamada grinned weakly, still pale, and not quite sensible, if Mayuri was any judge. “Can’t afford it and rent yet, doctor. I’ll be f—“  
  
“You’ll be dead,” Mayuri argued, succinctly. Buses at this time of night, and Yamada looking even frailer than usual? Covered in his own blood? With Yamada’s luck, some fool Hollow would take him for an enemy and rip him open again. Mayuri _knew_ the underbelly of this city.  
  
Against his better judgment, but knowing it was the most sensible thing to do if he wanted Yamada back on call any time soon, he rolled his eyes, shoved the boy’s shirt (or what remained of it) back into his hands, and stormed toward the door. “Wait here,” he threw back over his shoulder, and when he returned fifteen minutes later (after a brief call to Nemu) with Yamada’s bag as well as his own briefcase, the boy was still sitting there, obedient as ever. He smiled, when he caught sight of Mayuri.  
  
“You don’t have to—" he began, pathetic and pale and grateful, and Mayuri held out a grudging arm, hating himself just a little bit for doing so.  
  
“Shut up,” he suggested, waspishly. The sight of Dr Kurotsuchi escorting anyone, let alone a co-worker, down a hall was not a common sight, but any gaping was forestalled by Mayuri’s vicious glare, and Yamada’s anaemic countenance. By the time Yamada was settled in the car (not that Mayuri was particularly concerned with his _comfort_ ) the surgeon was past regretting his decision and idly wondering if manslaughter charges would stick, if he left Yamada to the streets. He might have reneged, had not Yamada been sitting so carefully, strenuously not touching anything or showing any particular enthusiasm for the vehicle. Doing exactly what Mayuri told him to. As usual.  
  
“Where do you live?” he asked as they slid out of the parking lot. Yamada volunteered the street, and a landmark, and then sat unobtrusively, satchel held as close to his body as possible, without pressing against the new stitches, right hand resting lightly on that thigh. And, hating himself, but not wanting Yamada to pass out in his front seat, Mayuri said, briskly, “Talk. If you fall asleep, I’m dumping you on the footpath.”  
  
Yamada started to turn, and stopped as the muscles in his neck pulled painfully. There’s that wry smile in the corner of his vision again, and then the boy murmurs, “I had no idea she would do that. She didn’t seem like that kind of person.” He paused, as though waiting for a reply, and when Mayuri gave none, went on alone, resigned to the fact that this was not a conversation. “I’ll try not to underestimate the effects of stress again, sir. And, um, when... I get back, let me know whatever I can, um, help... no, ah, what I can do for you. Even filing or something like that. I’m sorry to make you work harder.”  
  
Mayuri ignored him, eyes peeled for the street sign. Near the Chinese place - _not_ a restaurant. Nothing like food, he was sure.  
  
“Just here,” Yamada supplied helpfully. “Corner is fine; you don’t want to hit park traffic.”  
  
“Do shut up, Yamada,” Mayuri sighed, turning into the apartment block’s main driveway. “I said to talk, not blather.”  
  
The boy smiled again, more warm than wry this time. “Yes, Dr Kurotsuchi.” And as Mayuri turned his head to inform him that that was _not_ shutting up, Yamada leaned forward – too quickly, if the hiss of pain was any indication – and stopped, wincing, a hair’s breadth away. For half a breath, Yamada’s soft groan was on Mayuri’s lips, too, and then they both back-pedalled sharply, Mayuri with an expression of mild alarm. Yamada sounded pained, as well as uncomfortable, when he spoke.  
  
“That was stupid,” he muttered to himself, and, louder, “Thankyou for the lift, sir.” Cautiously, he manoeuvred himself out of the car, swayed briefly on the sidewalk, and closed the car door gently, unobtrusively behind him.  
  
Mayuri sat for nearly a whole minute in the driveway, processing what had just – had been _about_ to – happen. Just long enough for Yamada to get up the first flight of stairs.  
  
Then, he backed out, perhaps more hastily than he otherwise would have done, and wheeled the car around. He didn’t see Yamada pause to beat his head against his doorframe, but the action, he would be horrified to discover, would not have surprised him in the least.


End file.
